


The Slow Dehumanization of Bucky Barnes

by Fandom-GT (slotting), slotting



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Bukkake, Exhibitionism, F/M, Giants, M/M, Macro/Micro, Objectification, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sex Toys, Shrinking, Size Kink, Voyeurism, unabashedly gross mischaracterization of Steve Rogers for the purposes of porn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-05
Updated: 2020-10-18
Packaged: 2021-02-28 16:42:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,793
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23490337
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/slotting/pseuds/Fandom-GT, https://archiveofourown.org/users/slotting/pseuds/slotting
Summary: An accident in the field leaves Bucky a little less than an inch tall. In the beginning, Steve is diligent and attentive to all of his needs. As time progresses, Steve gets less and less careful and, eventually, seems to stop thinking of him as a person at all.It all comes to a head when Steve realizes he enjoys being watched during sex.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Comments: 16
Kudos: 140





	1. Part 1

Steve and Bucky have been (very platonic) best friends for their entire lives. From childhood through their teen years, from the war to the fall, to waking up in this new land and navigating the adjustment to both the world around them and their friendship with each other. It had been going remarkably well, all things considered, from the moment they reunited up through the progression of trials and juries, therapy, reintegration into society, sharing an apartment, and - more recently - working him into field missions whenever possible. 

It’s inevitable, of course, that something should go wrong and derail that pleasant status quo. It’s on a mission with Scott Lang, over a strange and unfamiliar entity bent on stealing Pym’s research and his technology to weaponize it. Not all that surprising; where there’s tech there’s the opportunity to turn that tech into a weapon. Their mission had been simple: detain, then reacquire the stolen tech.

They were a little late on that, it turns out. In the short days this woman had her hands on Pym particles, she’d managed to create some kind of something capable of firing concentrated particle energy directly from a receptacle not terribly unlike a gun. She fired, Bucky tried to deflect with his metal arm because it’s instinct to do that, but it isn’t a projectile. It doesn’t bounce off.

Instead, it rockets through his entire core and in a flash, in an instant, he’s in another world entirely - or so he thinks at first. 

At one inch tall, it’s almost baffling that no boot nor shield nor flying debris managed to crush him before Steve found him, covering him protectively in a cupped hand and withstanding fists to his face, body, and arms - never allowing his hands to close. 

They shut her down, regrouped, and Lang took a good long look at him - in his ant suit, at his height, much to Bucky’s private and secret relief. It’s nice to have something to scale, which Scott deeply understands, and so he takes the time to shrink down other objects to work for him. Clothes and shoes, hygiene supplies, even furniture - which is what tipped his hand that something was very, very not good about this situation.

He throws out the suggestion of Scott just hitting him with whatever he uses to ‘go big’, which gets refuted almost immediately. Amplifying size like that only structurally holds up for short duration, and that’s with his suit. Without it, he’s afraid of some kind of atomic separation that might - as he so kindly put it - cause Bucky to explode like some kind of water balloon filled with chunky soup.

So, yeah. The vivid imagery was enough to instill some patience, and Scott says it’s just a matter of time before he can reverse-engineer the gun to do the opposite of what it does already, he just… has to figure out how it does it, and what it’s made of, and how she concentrated it, and about six other ‘and’s.

That was months ago.

Steve took him home, because of course he did. Cleared off the entirety of their kitchen table and re-purposed it into something like an apartment for him on one entire half, complete with a bed, a living room, a little iPad and a little old-fashioned bathroom that doesn’t have running water, but that Steve diligently refreshes every day. He portions out food at every meal, and feeding Bucky is practically inconsequential to his grocery purchasing habits at this scale. 

He sits at the table and they eat together, although it took Bucky at least a couple of weeks to come anywhere within spitting distance of that giant plate with bites of food that are larger than he is. It made him churn with some bone-deep instinctive discomfort, watching Steve spear enormous fork prongs into meat and lift it a mile high up to his mouth to chew it with teeth about his size.

They settle into a sort of comfortable rhythm after week 2, with plenty of space and an almost excessive amount of care. Steve’s too cognizant of the noises, of the volume of his voice, of the vibrations his feet make when he moves around the kitchen. 

After week 4, he started to get comfortable. Stopped muffling himself, offered only a casual cautionary word before running a large appliance or the water, forgot about stepping lightly so that the furniture didn’t rattle with his walk.

At week 6 comfortable started teetering on the brink of careless. He comes in and tosses his keys down onto his half of the table without so much as a glance to see where Bucky might be beforehand. He bumps it with his hips and doesn’t even think to apologize, even though it sends Bucky stumbling off his feet and onto his ass.

After week 8, his eyes slide over both Bucky and his half of the table without pause or care the way people overlook furniture they’re used to or art that’s been on the same spot of the wall for years. He forgets to eat in the kitchen, and starts eating on the couch in the living room in front of the television. 

He forgets to refill and clean out the bathroom utilities, until Bucky uses his iPad after 3 days to gently ask him, humiliated at needing it done but having held out as long as he could. Steve does an hour or two later, shooting him an absent apologetic smile and saying, “Sorry, Buck. Must’ve forgotten yesterday.”

Bucky doesn’t correct him.

At week 12, Steve starts walking around the house without a shirt or pants on. He strides through the kitchen in his underwear, scratching at his privates and yawning, irreverent and unconcerned. It isn’t just that he’s forgotten, because he approaches Bucky’s little kitchen and bathroom set-up with his briefs at table-level, almost every bit of him clearly defined through his underwear even soft, and he cleans things out, puts them back, and goes on about his day.

Week 13 he brings home a date. They come in the door already a whirlwind of chaos, with their mouths locked against one another and Steve thudding her gently against the door as soon as it closes. They stumble in a few steps farther, her legs around his waist and his hands cupping her ass, and at nearly midnight without a second thought he slams her onto the bare half of the kitchen table, rocking the entire setup and even sending part of it sliding off, crashing to the ground. Fortunately, not bedroom Bucky’d been asleep in at the time.

He peels himself out of bed and out of the partition, just to stare straight ahead at the curve of thick glutes smashed against the flat surface of the table, her dress peeled up to the small of her back, and Steve’s fingers digging enormous divots into the meat of her thighs. Her hands soar backward and slap palm-down on the table some hundred yards away from his perspective, a safe distance for now, provided she doesn’t lay down entirely.

He can see miles up her sloping back, her bare shoulders in her low-backed dress, her dark hair cascading around it, and beside it, Steve’s face as he tucks into her shoulder and sucks softly at her neck.

His blue eyes flicker open, pass over Bucky on the table with barely a moment of recognition and certainly without any concern, because they drop right back down to the girl he’s pressed against. 

They are a titanic geography. They are taller than any mountain on the skyline, they’re higher than the empire state building if you’re standing at the end of the block looking up at it. They are chaos incarnate, and it’s only because of the serum in his blood that her moans don’t deafen him. 

He knows Steve’s seen him standing there, staring awestruck and affronted at the pair of them. He also knows Steve only gave him about a millisecond of a glance before continuing on with it, not even a blip on his radar right now. He watches those giant palms coast up a desert of skin, slip beneath the last vestiges of cover her dress affords, and find the hemline of a pair of pink satin panties that he peels down her.

Oh, Christ.

Bucky steels himself, making a break for the center of the table and the millimeter gap that runs down the middle of it where it collapses if folded. It’s his best shot here at getting by unscathed, because he hears the telltale sound of a zipper rumbling down and the impossible to miss breathy sounds of two people lining themselves up but with the volume up a thousand notches too high.

Steve, he assumes, eases into her slow and steady. It doesn’t stay that way for long. Athletic as ever, both the power and the speed picks up until before long his his are slamming into her and jolting the entire table so hard it occasionally goes skidding a half an inch on the tile floor, squeaking an ear-splitting sound beneath his feet.

Bucky hangs onto that little ledge afforded to him, metal fingers clamping down as force throws him left and right and backward, and his little apartment is sacrificed to the floor to scatter into a hundred broken pieces.

Steve, to his credit, does falter for a second to lift his eyes and scan them along the table. Once they find him, though, it’s like his duty gets a firm check-mark and he can go right back to doing what he’s doing with the relief that Bucky’s hanging in there more or less fine as far as he’s concerned.

It lasts for what feels like forever, punctuated with hard slams and thick groans, with near-misses of her sweeping hands threatening to pass over him, and with a glorious, terrifying rumbling climax -- during which Steve does finally lock eyes on Bucky, staring directly at him as orgasm takes over his face and as he comes with great relief into the girl on the table.

His attention only lasts as long as his orgasm does, and then Bucky’s back to being a nonentity as Steve focuses his attention back on his date again. They’re sweaty and breathless and panting, and she kisses him and thanks him and leaves her number, and after she’s dressed and used the bathroom he walks her to the door.

Steve walks bare-assed naked back through the kitchen, bending at the waist and plucking up Bucky’s bed from the ground with one hand while slowly peeling the condom off with the other.

“Sorry about that,” he breathes with something of a laugh, a little shake to his head, a soft whew like Bucky’s going to give him an atta-boy for getting laid. Like Bucky’s gonna congratulate him on it, as though he didn’t just decimate Bucky’s entire safety net and literally fuck a girl before him like his presence didn’t matter.

As though it doesn’t matter that Steve’s tying up a condom with his dick out and absently tossing it into the trash. 

“I’ll clean that up tomorrow,” he says, and means literally Bucky’s entire life - including the iPad he uses to communicate because Steve often can barely hear his voice when he’s trying to listen, let alone when he’s on the other side of the kitchen chugging down orange juice after a steady fuck.

Bucky doesn’t get much sleep on his bed in the middle of an empty kitchen table that night.

The next morning, Steve starts tossing his stuff up onto the table from the floor, absently discarding things that are broken - like the iPad, like his dresser, like a dozen other things that he’d been using for some semblance of normalcy. The partitions that made his walls are gone, and what remains of his belongings are scattered around the middle of the kitchen table. 

“I’ll talk to Scott, have him get you some new stuff.”

When he gets enough of Steve’s attention two weeks later to have him dip down and listen in between trips to the kitchen and the living room, he asks about it.

“Shoot- I keep meaning to do that. I’ll call him tomorrow.”

He doesn’t call tomorrow, nor the next day, nor the next, and despite the fact that he ritually drops food or water onto the table in passing, he doesn’t stop to talk to Bucky at all for a few weeks after that. It’s like it’s just a part of his absent routine, like locking the doors or brushing his teeth. Something he does automatically without thought, and he sure as hell doesn’t spare a second thought about Bucky after those tasks are complete.

He starts walking around the apartment naked.

He doesn’t bring any more dates home, but at week sixteen he does get an amazon package with a toy in it. He signs, smiles, goes to the kitchen table to drop the box on it, and Bucky watches as he takes a knife, slicing through tape neatly, unfolding cardboard, and pulling out a long, velvety bag with drawstrings.

He pulls them apart, and he pulls out a thick, sturdy tube which takes Bucky fifteen or twenty seconds to recognize as a fleshlight. Steve whistles long and low, then dips his hand back into the box to pull out the small bottle of lubricant that comes with it.

He reads absently over the bottle, rolls the fleshlight back and forth along the table, and finally mutters to himself, “Well, let’s break it in.”

He doesn’t know why it is he expected Steve to take himself to the bedroom, it’s not like he’s demonstrated any semblance of modesty in weeks on weeks. He no sooner says that than he starts peeling his shirt off up over his head, tossing it to an empty spot on the kitchen table - well, mostly empty. Bucky’s bed, dresser, and bathtub are under it. 

Bucky tells himself Steve wouldn’t have thrown it there if he’d been there. He’s not as sure as he’d like to be.

Steve’s shorts go next, and he leaves the fleshlight settled on the table while he pops the cap and squirts a little lube onto his waiting palm to start slicking up his already half-interested cock. It’s hard to look away from something like this - Steve’s enormous hand manipulating a dick the size of a bus, the slick echoing dirty sound of skin on skin, friction and wetness, and soon enough Steve’s compromised breathing that follows it.

Once he’s suitably hard, he reaches out for the fleshlight and tugs it to the edge of the table. Rather than picking it up, he leans some of his weight onto it with his left hand and he uses his right to guide himself in.

“Tsss- _oooh_ -” he gasps, sounding surprised by the sensation. He takes a few long seconds to experimentally roll his hips, guiding them around in circles, rolling them at a few different angles as though to get a feel for the thing. See which way he likes it best.

For a second, Bucky’s afraid he’s about to experience a repeat scenario like he’d had with that girl the first time, but ultimately it turns out that would’ve been a better situation than the one he ultimately found himself in.

Without a single word of warning, Steve’s right hand descends across the wide expanse of table and plucks him up with a thumb and forefinger that smell and feel tacky with lubricant. He barely gets out his startled, affronted what the hell before Steve’s setting him back down again.

In front of the fleshlight’s opening.

The thing is, the thick plastic and the interior silicon make the opening almost twice as tall as him - which, in reality, is all of about two inches off the surface of the table. With it at his back, Steve’s fingers recede to leave him with the most mind-numbingly unfathomable, uncomfortable view he’s ever had in his entire life.

It’s not like watching two skyscrapers have sex from across the city.

This time, directly in front of him is a set of pale, heavy testicles settled just before the lip of the table drops off to the floor. On either side, thighs thicker than shopping malls. Directly above him, the long fat line of the underside of Steve’s cock - right up to the edge of the head, which is still tipped into the entrance of the fleshlight.

And then Steve rolls his hips forward, passing that enormous dick overhead and looming in precariously closely with his balls - to the point that Bucky actually falls flat on his back in preparation of being knocked over by them, which fortunately does not come to pass - only barely, if he nudges a foot down he’d kick one of them.

Steve’s hips roll back, and that rigid column of flesh passes slowly out with a wet suctioning squelching sound. On his back, he sees it all - the entrance of the fleshlight, somewhat through the semi-transparent plastic of it to the obscured flesh-colored shape of his head. The thick vein that runs underneath it, pulsing as the blood pumps through it. All the way down to the root of his cock where it becomes pelvis.

Steve rolls his hips in again, inch by wet and enormous inch passing overhead like he’s lying under train tracks watching it pass over him - except it’s just a couple of feet over his face.

When he finally manages to shake his stupor, he rolls abruptly and starts hauling ass away from where he’d been placed - just to have fingers descend on him a little too tightly and shove him back under.

“No- I want you to watch-” Steve says breathlessly, and if Bucky shifts a few inches to the right he can just about peer up past that dick to miles of rippling abs, tight pectorals, the tipped point of a chin and blue eyes that look like the size of the sun staring down at him.

Locking eyes with him as he rolls his hips deliberately back into his toy, pupils blown wide and black, hips stuttering and then pace picking up to a quicker, steady in and out with sucking force and dirty grind, shaking the table beneath him like a god damn earth quake.

“All you gotta do is watch-” he breathes, “Watch it.”

And then he goes to town, peeling his eyes away from Bucky to flutter them closed and start fucking the thing proper. He even bends forward at the waist to press his free palm flat on the table, nearly bent over it so he can fuck it hard and heavy and hot.

And Bucky watches, because - frankly, with the ferocity Steve’s going at this he’s afraid to move. Afraid of an errant hand or sudden jerk of the fleshlight, afraid of the shaking table that’s now slamming rhythmically against the wall behind it, afraid it might send him plummeting down. 

Faster and faster he goes, low moans reverberating through his chest, curses flying off his lips, “Aw fuck- fuck- fffuck-” with a filthy sound to the letter f, as though it’s prefacing the corresponding pointed resounding thud of his hips meeting a peaking roll of pleasure.

He can tell Steve’s close because it’s impossible to miss - not just because of those noises or the rhythm of the earthquake around him, but because all he can really see is that throbbing dick, the way it’s gone so red and plump and angry, the way he can see it expanding and contracting with pulses of super-heated pleasure.

What he doesn’t expect is for Steve to pull back a little and implore him, “Go in the other end.”

“What? No-” Except even if Steve could hear him over his own ragged breathing, he doesn’t accept the answer. His hips keep thrusting to maintain his proximity to orgasm, and his hand shoots roughly down to snatch him up and drop him at the open opposite end of the tunnel.

“I wasn’t really asking,” he rasps, nudging Bucky forcefully in until step over clumsy step he stumbles through the opening, nearly falling on the trampoline-like interior of the silicon. 

When he gets his bearing and finds his footing, he’s treated with a new kind of terror.

Steve’s cock head, big as it’s ever been, soaking wet, plowing in and out of the tight patterned and ringed silicon before him, pummeling through it closer and closer to his small body, spasming, then finally-

-a mountainous groan, a jerk in his rhythm, and the slit before him opens up.

Steve comes, shooting a god damn torrential flood of semen over him, burying him in it. It just keeps coming, gallons upon gallons drenching him and drowning him as he moans through the climax, the stretching pleasure of it, and the slow descent of the afterglow - all elongated by the thought of what he’d just done to the little thing at the end of his toy.

He peels out slowly, savoring his exit with a low and guttural hiss.

Bucky feels the entire world shifting, the sensation of an inelegant elevator ride up, soaring through the air while he army-crawls himself out of viscous semen trying to cling to his body. Dragging himself forward to the less-wet but still lube-slickened ridges of empty space where Steve’s dick had been.

And then a descent, darkness, and the unmistakable sound of a drawer that both he and the fleshlight are in rumbling closed.


	2. Part 2

Bucky finds himself sitting wet and in the dark for hours. He’d taken to crawling toward the opposite end of Steve’s flashlight, climbing over ridges and rings away from the drying semen coating the very end of it. Stripped off the last remains of his tiny clothes, and collapsed exhausted on the softest part he could find.

He’s woken up by rumbling, the entire spherical room he’s in rolling forward sending him end over end, and immediately near-blinding light beaming in through the semi-transparent silicon. G-force pins him on his back as the fleshlight goes soaring, up-up-up and then forward as Steve carries it wherever it is they’re going.

He can only tell it’s the bathroom by the torrential, near-deafening sound of running water. The whole thing tips up vertically, and Bucky goes practically somersaulting out of the end and onto the bathroom counter. 

Once his vision clears, he’s met with a skyscraper of flesh before him - the familiar sight of Steve from waist to chest, because it takes practically laying down flat in order to just see the underside of his chin and part of one eye. Everything else beyond him is too far, too distant, a blurry landscape of only semi-recognizable objects. 

At his back, the fleshlight slow-motion soaring away from him. 

Steve looks down, and seems momentarily surprised.

“Huh. Forgot you were in there,” he says, lining the fleshlight up under running water and pumping some soap into it to clean it out. It’s a terrifying thought - that if he hadn't fallen out he’d probably be fighting the current of tap water and semen trying to stay away from the drain. Steve seems unbothered, a cavalier tone in his voice. “Now that I think about it, though, kinda makes more sense to keep you in there than on the kitchen table.”

The water squeaks off, and he pulls a hand towel down to start drying it. He speaks in Bucky’s general direction, but his eyes are only on his sex toy.

“I mean, I plan on coming on you every time from now on anyway. No point having to walk all the way into the kitchen every night just to get off. Cut out the middleman, right?”

Two fingers the size of trucks descend on him, plucking him up from the counter. There’s no point even trying to dodge them, it’s yards and yards to him to even get to the edge of the counter. Steve doesn’t lift him to eye level or even cup him in a comfortable hand, he just walks with Bucky absently pinched and hovering somewhere around his chest as he talks.

“It felt so damn good, just thinking about you bein’ in there. It’s gotta look huge, it’s gotta practically drown you right? Wish I could see it, what it looked like on your end. I really don’t think I’m ever gonna come without finishing on you again, pal, I mean it - it just makes it two or three times better than normal.” 

The landscape changes back to the bedroom, and the pair of them descend an incomprehensible distance as Steve flops onto his bed. His hand soars past pecs, past abs, until Bucky’s being held up before his half-hard dick.

“You’re just so fucking small. I mean- Jesus, look-” He says, dropping the fleshlight down in order to curl his hand around his dick and guide it toward Bucky. It looms in, enormous, smooth, a softly closed slit, the entire thing easily the size of the bedroom in his last apartment. “I keep thinking of all this stuff I wanna do, like - if I fuck this thing standing up and you gotta cling to my balls so you don’t fall?”

As he says it, Bucky watches the cock before him stiffen a little more. Steve’s right hand starts absently stroking in time with his thoughts, and it becomes clear almost immediately that Steve’s not really talking to him. Steve’s talking to himself, fantasizing out loud, giving himself something to jerk off to.

“You gotta know- I have to tell you- it’s getting me off bad thinking about coming on you every fucking night. Maybe first thing in the morning, too. I was thinking there wasn’t any real upside to you like this anymore until I saw you looking up at me having sex. God, I almost came right then. Then having you down underneath it while I fucked this thing, looking up… Watching me do it… Fuck, I gotta-”

And that’s all the warning Bucky gets before he’s moving again, dropped down at the end of the toy and rolling across silicon as Steve lines his dick up before it. It’s like staring down a vortex, a tunnel of patterns spiraling out - just to stop abruptly at a contrasting flesh-toned dome.

Steve pushes in, hissing. He pulls out slow, painstakingly slow, evacuating the yards of space before Bucky, leaving what seems like an enormous vacancy. He pushes back in just as slow, but it clears a startling amount of space like a force to be reckoned with, stopping a little more close to him than before. Outside the plastic, a rumbling groan. 

“It just feels so goddamn good,” He says, like a lamentation. Like it hurts. His pace picks up again, and every other upstroke comes precariously more close to where he’s hanging on. A few quick fucks and then he stops all the way into the hilt, the head of his dick an inch away from Bucky at most. “Look at it, buddy. You see it? Mmm, I wanna fucking finish on you so bad. You think I was gonna, just now?”

It’s teasing, light, taunting. 

He pulls back out again, starts fucking proper. The head of his dick becomes shiny, slick, wet with filthy leaking precome. 

“Bet you’re begging me not to in there right now, huh? Seems a little scary, so fucking huge, might drown in it if I get off. I’m gonna, Buck. God, I’m gonna come all over you so hard.”

He’s flying now, ruthless nonstop jerks, slamming into the space before Bucky over and over, throbbing and swollen, until suddenly his breathless voice breaks urgently through the sound of slick squelching. “Oh fuck, oh fuck, I’m gonna come, I’m gonna come, fuck, get ready sweetheart, I’m gonna fucking coat you-”

One sharp inward jerk, Steve’s cock freezes right in front of his face like he’s refusing to peel out until- 

Until after-

“Yessss,” the first thick shot ropes over him, knocks him off his feet. Steve’s cock retreats, then thrusts forward again, enticing another hot spurt dumping a hundred gallons on over top of the first. Again, peeling back and thrusting forward just as hard, with a little less incoming, still enough to flood out the landscape around him. The thrusts slow down, die off, but Steve wrings out every last fucking drop in him before he pulls out again.

His heavy breathing fills the air, but Bucky can’t see it from where he is, struggling under the weight of viscous semen. Steve brings the fleshlight to his eye, staring through the rim of it until his eye manages to focus on the shape of Bucky’s body fighting to break the surface of all of his semen. He moans low and hot, staring at flailing limbs dragging him toward dry land.

“God, look at you, you’re fucking swimming in it,” he breathes, and tilts the fleshlight to send it surging back over Bucky again. The response is instant, ripping himself up to suck in breath, fighting, floundering in the lake of his best friend’s come. “I gotta do it again. That’s so goddamn hot, Buck, I gotta do it again-”

The fleshlight lowers back down. Steve never even got all the way soft, he’s already pushing his dick back through the entrance. No pretense this time, no slowness, no dragging it out - it’s like he’s in a race to get to climax, in a hurry just so he can spill hot and hard all over again, ride out an orgasm while he douses Bucky in it.

He goes three times that night before he puts the fleshlight back in the drawer. The last thing Bucky hears is, “See you in the morning, pal.”


	3. Chapter 3

After Steve’s several-round onslaught, he’d taken a minute to rinse out his toy and shove Bucky under the spray as well. After that, he’d stuffed Bucky straight back into the fleslight and tossed it into his nightstand drawer with a cavalier, “See you in the morning, pal!”

The drawer closed, jostling the fleshlight and Bucky around like a full-scale earthquake. All light was blocked out, and then the world became silent. It remained that way for several hours; unremarkable, noiseless, sightless,  _ nothing _ . It was all well and good, after struggling to swim through round after round of come being shot over him to the point of near-drowning, he was exhausted. It didn’t take long for him to fall into a ridiculously deep sleep.

He’s woken up by chaos. The drawer’s yanked violently open, all the contents clattering around, and Steve’s fingers grope abruptly into the space, seeking him out frantically. It’s not light outside the drawer, but even the gentle glow of a sleeping computer monitor is bright compared to the pitch blackness Bucky’d been in.

Steve’s fingers are urgent and hectic in their movements, knocking over pencils and condoms and utterly disturbing Bucky’s habitat until they descend upon him. As soon as those fingertips land on his legs and feel him out, they rip him up into the sky. The world is a dark blur, it’s vertigo, he’s disoriented and his stomach swoops at the speed and distance he clears though the air.

When he’s finally stilled and settled again, Steve’s hold on him shifts into less of a pinch and more of a cup, curled behind him and cradling him midway down his body. Bucky’s vision manages to clear and orient, and the first thing he sees is the engorged head of Steve’s cock maybe three or four feet from his face. It’s soaking wet, thick, hard, and Steve’s other hand is furiously jacking off in front of him. He gets all of three or four seconds to let his eyes travel away from where Steve’s jerking off, up the length of Steve’s body to his face -- his eyes are barely slitted open, but Bucky can still tell Steve’s looking at him.

Almost immediately, Steve’s lips part to allow for a long, low, self-indulgent groan -- and then the massive slit in front of Bucky opens up, and Steve  _ comes _ . He shoots gallons of thick, ropey semen into his cupped hand and all over Bucky, filling it up shot after shot as his orgasm hits peaks that burst from him. He moans as he watches himself drown his best friend in it, and then his quickly stroking hand begins to gradually taper off.

For the fourth or fifth time tonight, Bucky fights to drag himself through a pool of hot, thick cum that’s so heavy it’s hard to force his limbs through. He’d gotten almost no warning on this one, nearly swallowed a lungful of it, and only after a few seconds does he mange to blindly find Steve’s thumb and use it to haul himself up to the surface to breathe.

Panting, soaked, he hangs off the side of it to catch his breath. Steve does, too -- chest heaving, his right hand idly stroking through the last of the aftershocks until he finally releases himself and looks at Bucky again.

“Sorry about that, pal, I needed to come,” he says breathlessly, and then dumps Bucky onto a waiting wad of tissues beside him. The massive fingers beneath him crumple the tissue around him until he’s packed densely into the center of a soaking wet wad, and Steve uses the wad to clean his cock and his fingers. He then dumps the whole thing back into his nightstand drawer without uncrumpling it, and slides the drawer closed again to go back to sleep.

Bucky spends a goddamn hour fighting his way through wet tissue, struggling to get out from inside of the crumpled up ball of paper and come. 

He barely manages to get another hour of sleep before the drawer slides open again. Much calmer fingers and Steve’s hovering face seek him out, drop him into the fleshlight, then lazily shove his cock in after without a single word. 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A commission by a particularly big fan! I hope you enjoy it, I definitely enjoyed writing it.
> 
> Request Description
> 
> A revenge fix set after the Dehumanization series, where Bucky is the big one. Bonus points for including body hair such as pubes.

Bucky Barnes never thought he’d be able to say he hated Steve Rogers. Maybe he still doesn’t, deep down love lasts whether you want it to or not. One thing’s for certain – he’s fucking pissed. It’s strange, in a way, because he wasn’t furious until after he was put back to normal again – he’d been too busy being afraid, or confused, horrified, rendered into shock or disbelief. At a certain point over the months and months of being kept, he started to kind of detach himself from everything. He went into a place he sometimes thinks of as “mission mode”, a Winter Soldier kind of headspace where his focus was simply on surviving the current moment rather than allowing himself to feel.

And now here he stands in a familiar kitchen, staring down at a familiar kitchen floor that he knows entirely too intimately. Specifically, staring down at the three inch hero standing on it. This time, it wasn’t an accident. No slip up in a lab, no spell, no chemical, no curse – it was straight up deliberate on Bucky’s part. He palmed a pym disc with the kind of slight of hand you can only really get once you can do what he does with knives, and used it within ten seconds of walking in the door. 

As soon as it was closed behind them, Steve tried rounding with an awkward apology in his tone, appealing, “Buck, I–”

As soon as he heard his own name he was incensed, absolutely enraged to think anything he did was even within the realm of apologizing for. Some things are just so above and beyond, the word “sorry” is downright insulting. He didn’t think twice about slapping the disc deliberately against Steve’s chest, and Bucky looked him square in the eyes for every second it took him to shrink.

It wasn’t long. They’re almost-but-not-quite instant, they’re less streamlined than the ant suit when it comes to living organisms. Still, three or four seconds was all it took for Steve to drop into his own clothing, not nearly enough time to react.

There he stands, right on top of his own underwear, the neckline of his shirt all around him like a fence, staring up at Bucky with a face so small he wouldn’t be able to really see it if it weren’t for the serum. 

Bucky steps right on up until the edges of his boots land on the sides of Steve’s shirt, looming over him so close and so tall Steve can only barely make out his face over the curve of his thick chest.

“Bucky–” he tries again, a note of alarm slipping into his tone. Immediately, Bucky lifts one boot and positions it over Steve, slowly dropping it down until it’s resting gently – but firmly – on top of Steve’s body, pressing him into the fabric beneath him. All Steve can see are deep trenches in the tread, dirt from the street, scuff marks, and nothing else. No face, no body, only the bottom of Bucky’s shoe. 

“Yeah, you don’t talk anymore,” Bucky says slowly, tonelessly, flat and hard without any room for argument. “If you ever wanna be even half as tall as you were in 1939, you’re not gonna say a damn word I don’t tell you to. I don’t even want a yes sir, I don’t want an I understand. I don’t care. As far as you’re concerned, I can’t hear you until I ask you something.”

To drive the point home, his boot presses down just a little harder. It lingers for a long moment, an aggressively spiteful and justified part of him enjoying the thought of what Steve must be fearing. That concern, that wondering, ‘Is he gonna crush me? Would he?’ Bucky wouldn’t, but there were times when he wondered the same about Steve. Times he was sandwiched between a cock and the walls of a fleshlight, gripped and fucked so hard he felt joints crack and lack of air drove the color out of his vision.

If he can dish it, he can take it – and it’s definitely his turn for taking it.

He lifts his boot, but doesn’t pull it completely away. Instead, Steve gets to watch as it shoves itself up under his shirt, carelessly lifting and kicking away the fabric without bothering to make sure Steve wasn’t tangled in it. It settles again right in front of his face, wide matted black, about as tall as he is, unnaturally detailed at this scale. A mile above him, Bucky’s low voice levelly orders him, “Climb.”

Those precarious ticking minutes underneath the tread of it – so impersonal, Bucky couldn’t even feel through it how hard Steve was writhing and pushing – taught him all he needed to know about protesting for the moment. He’ll try again later maybe, but for now while Bucky’s so heated, he contritely complies. Hauls his naked body up the curved toe and toward the laces, which he barely manages to get his hands around before Bucky starts walking.

It’s a goddamn rollercoaster. He soars through the air dozens of feet off the ground, and then slams down so hard he thinks at first Bucky must be stomping. A look up at his posture reveals that not to be true – just the standard impact of a rather casual walk snaps through his bones so roughly he’s sure he’d get some kind of impact damage if it weren’t for the serum. It really doubles down on that lesson - at this size, with this impact, if that boot came down on him even on an absent accident it might snap his spine.

Bucky doesn’t look down the entire walk to check on him, he just coldly strides into the bedroom while Steve clings on to his foot. He doesn’t even get a warning when they stop and Bucky starts to kick his boots off, sending Steve flying and tumbling onto the hardwood, rolling a half dozen feet with the force of it. 

Just as quickly as he’s discarded, metal fingers drop down and clamp around his middle to lift him off of the ground. They have flawless pressure sensors, he knows, but the unyielding cold metal still squishes parts of him too tightly to be comfortable. Bucky doesn’t lift him all the way up to his face, nor even chest, he just hangs there by Bucky’s side while he paces the rest of the way toward the nightstand.

Steve gets a sinking feeling in his gut when Bucky opens the drawer. Once he’s got the fleshlight in his hands, he finally raises Steve up to about the midpoint of his torso. He faces them together, Steve looking at the entrance and it looking back at him ominously.

“Guessing you remember this thing, huh, pal?” He drawls out, ire slipping into an otherwise deadpan tone. “The thing you kept me in? That whole your job is to clean the cum out of this thing, day in and day out like I was a tiny little fucking janitor for your jack-off sessions?”

Steve’s lips part, but one hard look from Bucky reminds him to keep his mouth shut. He knows it’s a rhetorical question, not one to be answered.

“It’s gonna seem like a goddamn hotel compared to what I’m gonna do with you.” He tosses the toy back into the nightstand with a little too much force; it clatters loudly. Steve winces at the sound, Bucky seems unphased. “I swear to god, Rogers, by the time I’m done you’re gonna be begging me to keep you in there instead. If you’re good, maybe I will, but not for a long, long time.”

“Where–” Steve starts, then cuts himself off abruptly, mouth snapping closed.

“Where am I putting you?” Bucky finishes the question for him. Steve can only nod. A soft, humorless laugh escapes Bucky’s mouth. He holds Steve a little lower so the guy can watch his free hand deliberately swoop down before him – damn if he doesn’t remember how frightening and alien fingers were at that size – to pop open the button on his jeans. He drags the zipper down slowly. After that, his hand creeps around to slip a thumb beneath the fabric over one of his hips, and he pushes it down just a couple of inches. Just enough to reveal the neatly trimmed public hair above Bucky’s cock. 

Rather, it looks neatly trimmed at a normal scale. To Steve, it’s gotta be at least waist high and practically as wide as the front goddamn yard.

Bucky’s hand disappears behind his back for a second, and he pulls out what looks to be a sleek, rounded remote.

“They really upped the tech since you started trying to goddamn drown me every time you touched yourself,” it’s hard, level, nonemotional. “That disc isn’t gone, it’s underneath your skin. You try and escape, you talk out of turn, you do anything I don’t like?”

He presses a button on the remote.

Metal fingers span out quickly all around him, no longer plucking him around the waist but rather pinching him delicately between fingertip and the pad of his thumb. It’s so large, so much pressure it’s like being compressed by closing walls. It’s what he imagines cars feel right before they’re crushed down into cubes for recycling. All he can do is press his palms against the surface and gasp like a fish trying to suck down air.

Bucky lifts him up to his face. If Steve thought he was big before, it’s nothing compared to this – rather than his entire expression taking up Steve’s field of vision, it’s one. Goddamn. Eye. One eye so big he can only barely make out a nose in his peripheral vision.

“There’s not a lot you can do at this size, but I think I’ll keep you here for a few hours so you understand just exactly what I could do to you if I wanted,” Bucky’s voice is so loud it rings through Steve’s ears like a gong. Like having his head shoved into a subwoofer. Like an airplane with the windows down. 

And then he goes soaring again, miles and miles and miles toward that patch of pubic hair that seemed tame compared to how it looks now – tree branches, hell, trees almost. Bucky’s goddamn pubes are taller than he is.

Bucky presses him face first into a patch of it, and then his hand retreats abruptly leaving Steve to cling onto fistfuls, to straddle a few to secure himself.

“If I look for you and you’re not there, I’m holding down this remote until you fall through the cracks in the damn floor.” 

That’s the final warning he gets before immense, unbelievably huge fabric comes up to seal him in.

And then he gets to experience a whole new version of Bucky walking.

It’s scarier than the boot.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is part 1 of a multi-chapter commission, stay tuned for additional chapter(s) as I complete them.
> 
> Request Description
> 
> I’d love more of the rehumanization revenge fic with a mostly Steve POV, please! And it’d be great if you focused a little on his emotions of whether or not he has regret.

Everything around Steve is a landscape. It’s not as dark as you might think, and it’s because fabric and light are entirely different at this scale. He’s small enough that he can see the cross-hatched pattern in the fibers of Bucky’s underwear, he can see through the occasional gap to a similar pattern on the outside of them – jeans – and small beams of light make it through the cracks between the two. It gives him enough light that a larger person wouldn’t really perceive, and it allows him to see the world around him in a sort of pre-dawn visibility.

He wonders if this is how bugs feel. If this is how they manage to navigate around the dark spaces that seem like blind spots to people. 

He is clinging to a wall of body hair that stretches up dozens of yards above and below him. There are subtle hills and valleys where muscle changes shape, hidden and invisible normally, but at this scale he can both make them out and sort of climb them. One such divot is beneath him, a little muscular ridge that would make for a decently stable base to settle into – and he needs one. The titanic landmass to which he clings has nearly non-stop earthquakes. Even the smallest, lightest booming step sends impact through every part of Bucky, threatening to shake Steve loose from his pubes.

He doesn’t want to think about what might happen if he fell. It’s not just about not being where Bucky put him and consequently the fear of becoming somehow impossibly smaller – it’s the very real logistics. A glance down to the depths of the abyss beneath him show a building-sized cock curving out of view, and equivalently intimidating balls beneath it. If he falls, gravity will drag him down underneath them. 

At best, he may never be found again among Bucky’s underwear or privates. At worst, they simply crush him under their weight. 

The shock is starting to wear off. He hadn’t been able to wrap his head around it, didn’t really have time for the reality to set in, but now it’s beginning to. 

This is real. This is extremely, seriously real. He’s not even ant sized, clinging to his toy’s– his friend’s– Clinging to Bucky’s pubic hair just to stay alive. He’s still struggling to reconcile the sudden change. So massive, so abrupt, it feels like they’re two separate entities.

When he first realized Bucky was growing back, his knee-jerk impulse was disappointment. Subconscious thoughts floated by like, “how do I stop it” or “but that’s what I come on.” There’s no denying it was never his intention to fix Bucky himself – because he’d honestly, truly forgotten who Bucky was. Not in the most literal sense, of course he remembered the name, had vague background memories that were just sort of facts without emotion tied to it, but on a deeper and more present level he just… forgot. Dissociated his little toy with his best friend over the course of months and months through steadily decreased communication and no interacting as equals.

You’d be surprised how hard it is to think of a two-inch person as being your peer after a few weeks. He went from forgetting about Bucky for long periods of time to disregarding his existence almost entirely – right up until he brought that girl home. Then, in the middle of sliding his cock into something sweet and tight and hot, he looked down and just saw this little… thing. This little awestruck thing who couldn’t do anything but try and accommodate his orgasm. Disregarding him transitioned into getting off on the thought of him and the different ways he could accomplish it – not all strenuous or particularly dangerous at first, like just having Bucky lay down underneath his cock and watch as he fucked that fleshlight, or coming on him. As soon as he did, it was kind of like drug addiction. One time turned into two turned into being almost constantly horny, daydreaming about the different ways he could get off, how hard he could come, how creatively he could use that little thing.

It wasn’t Bucky. It was just… the little doll that he got off on, that looked and sort of felt like an echo of his best friend in that distant impersonal way that fantasies do, when you absently think about someone you know while you jerk off. 

He spent more than a little amount of time thinking about what it must look like from Bucky’s perspective. The sight of a massive cock bearing down on him, struggling through cum all around him. It became sort of an obsession, imagining it from Bucky’s end, stroking himself off to the weirder and more humiliating ways he could think of. Like a game, like a long term BDSM scene.

Just lacking the consent part, because… well, you know. Not a person, just an “I come on that” thing. 

Now, he doesn’t have to imagine things from Bucky’s point of view, he’s literally seeing it firsthand. He might have screwed himself a little, truth be told. Sort of pavlovian trained himself to be turned on by the images, the possibilities, the fantasies. His body’s used to jacking off, to coming to the thought of stuff like this.

So yeah, maybe he’s a little hard. He doesn’t want to be, he doesn’t mean to be, he just can’t turn it off. He’s trying not to think about it.

Instead, he’s thinking about that divot a few feet beneath him, and he concentrates on trying to carefully descend toward it. One grip of hair at a time he lowers himself, grabbing, using it like a rope to repel down.

He must tickle, or itch, or pull a hair too sharply, though, because sudden near-blinding light cracks open from the heavens above him. He almost doesn’t recognize the shape that enters at first, his mind has to seriously stare at it before the right associations click and he realizes that it’s fingers heading quickly in his direction.

They don’t slow their descent as they approach. They also don’t arrange themselves like they mean to grab him – no, they turn so that the blunt, flat wall of Bucky’s fingernail touches down three or four feet beneath him. Never in his life did he imagine fingernails like this, so enormous that even the ends were several inches wide. He’s thrown back into shock momentarily, he doesn’t realize what’s happening until it’s nearly too late.

Those enormous, car-sized nails begin to drag up through his forest of hair, headed straight toward him with absolutely no indication that they’re aware of, or care about, his presence. They’re on an unfaltering, compassionless course his direction, upending tufts of tree-branch hair, scraping up bits of dead skin, threatening his goddamn life with their approach.

Bucky’s scratching his crotch, and he might not even be thinking about it. He might not even notice he’s doing it. He might not even consider that he’s going to scratch Steve into goddamn oblivion – or he just might not care. Either way, Steve has to climb maybe the fastest and hardest he’s ever climbed in his life just to stay alive as those daunting nails eliminate the distance between them.

Right before they’d overtake him, they stop.

And head back down again, to reset and drag themselves right back up – Steve has to haul himself up another foot to dodge them again before they drag back down and up one more time, so loud he almost winces throughout the entire exchange.

Just as quickly as they appeared, they recede again. Leave through the exit miles above his head, enclosing him once again in dim light. Bucky’s finished idly scratching his itch.


End file.
